it doesn’t rain like this in Texas. nobody
was ready, not
even the fields. not even
i, collecting state lines like the
man on the corner collecting pocket change. rain
falls in thick sheets. we watch, dry and wistful. she has
silver rings on every finger, glistening, such
strength housed in their crooked reach. small
talk. coffee, cooled, held in gnarled lovely hands.
(in the Golden Shovel style, featuring a line from E.E. Cummings: nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands)